


Monsters

by squirrelfish



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Blood, Crack, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, idek what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirrelfish/pseuds/squirrelfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  Arthur is a vampire, Eames is a werewolf, and they live together in Addams Family-style domestic bliss.  Then Cobb shows up and it all goes to hell (literally).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters

Arthur’s boyfriend is hairy, which isn’t a surprise considering the circumstances. 

It’s rather nice, in fact, to wake up encompassed in muscular, fuzzy arms or with his face pressed into the hair of Eames’ chest, even if it might tickle his nose a bit. Eames is also sporting a full beard these days, because Arthur not-so-secretly likes it, and the sleepy morning kisses are sweeter for the scritch of it along Arthur’s shoulder, his neck, his cheek. Eames’ lips are soft in contrast to the burn.

“Your feet are freezing,” Eames says, as the two of them slowly wake up and untangle themselves (but not quite enough to extricate Arthur’s feet from between Eames’ legs). Most of Arthur is, in fact, freezing, as his body temperature typically doesn’t rise much higher than a corpse’s. This also isn’t a surprise considering the circumstances.

Arthur responds with a groan and plops his chin on top of Eames' head.

Eames smiles and nuzzles into Arthur’s neck. “I have to be in the shower soon if I want to get to work smelling appropriate,” he says.

If they hadn’t had sex last night, Eames could probably go without a shower. But as is, the smell wouldn’t quite pass.

Arthur relents by sitting up. He’s skinny and his hair is a mess, and he’s always blurry-eyed at this time of day because he has low blood sugar. He has low blood in general. He always looks a bit underfed because of this, but Eames has never cared, and in fact pokes his ribs playfully as he rolls out of bed.

Arthur has always understood that he has a tremendous amount of luck to be dating a monster. Eames, of course, passes better than Arthur, seeing as Eames is only really monstrous when the full moon hits him, but this has never changed the fact that it’s hard to get close to people if you can’t explain where you disappear to every month or why you have a penchant for very rare meats. There aren’t many werewolves in a small town like this—Arthur has only ever met a handful including Eames—but there are even fewer vampires.

In fact, Arthur is the only vampire he knows. 

He died when he was 32 (car accident), but wound up walking away from his wake. His mourning relatives still won’t talk to him after that incident. He was never quite sure why he came back to life, fully healed apart from a general paleness and thirst for blood, but after consuming every book he could on vampirism at his local library, his “condition” came to make a modicum of sense.

Still, even with the power of information, it was a lonely few years after that. That’s all Arthur really remembers of them. Just a huge expanse of loneliness. He was on the brink of leaving home, even though he loved home, just trying to find a place where others of his kind might linger, when he met Eames. And with Eames came Eames’ pack—friends, comrades, people who could finally understand the unique glitches of a supernatural life.

Arthur found a home, and he is supremely thankful for that at every moment. Even this moment, when he isn’t quite awake and still smells like last night’s sex.

He listens to Eames’ shower, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, and creaks his way out of bed. The room is dark, with the windows firmly covered, although the sun burns a circle of pink into the red curtains. Arthur is naked and frankly a bit sticky from last night. Nevertheless he stretches, cracks his neck, yawns, revealing rather large fangs. As soon as the shower silences, he heads to the bathroom to take Eames’ place.

This goes rather pear-shaped, however, when he sees Eames standing dripping with a towel on his hips and running fingers through his hair as he looks into the foggy mirror. Eames is a built man, slightly shorter than Arthur but nearly two Arthurs broad. The black ink of tattoos peak out beneath the hair on his chest and arms, including one tantalizing tendril that slopes down his hipbone into the recesses of his towel. Arthur swallows thickly. Eames reaches for his toothbrush but freezes.

It’s no good getting aroused in front of a werewolf this close to the full moon. Eames can smell it, and Eames is not exactly celibate at this time of month either. They had sex last night because they’ve had sex every night this week as the moon comes nearer and nearer. In the mirror Eames’ pupils slowly dilate. Arthur sighs and steps forward to circle his arms around Eames’ wide torso.

“How about a quickie?” he whispers into the small hairs at Eames’ ear, and Eames growls.

They wind up in the shower, Arthur plastered against the wall and keening as Eames ruts against him, muscular arms pinned against Arthur on either side, their cocks sliding between Arthur’s fingers. The water isn’t on, but the steam from Eames’ shower still lingers, Eames’ skin slick and fresh with it, his hair dark and wet. Arthur kisses him tenderly, a feat that had taken quite some time to figure out originally, as Arthur’s fangs are unwieldy and prone to drawing blood from lips and gums without the proper maneuvering. It had been like his first kiss all over again, learning with Eames.

Eames’ hands grip Arthur’s sharp hips possessively, pulling him closer so they grind and bump together, just this side of awkward but still perfect, and their lips part so they can each take in gasping breaths, hot against one another’s lips. Eames rubs their cheeks together, his beard tickling Arthur’s jaw, before leaning forward to suck at Arthur’s neck. The very thought of neck-sucking makes a high, almost pained noise erupt from Arthur’s throat, and Eames knowingly lifts his chin, baring his neck for Arthur. Arthur’s fangs brush against the flesh of Eames’ neck and that’s what sends Eames over, his orgasm frothing over Arthur’s hand. Arthur bites—Eames hisses—and those tiny droplets of blood on Arthur’s tongue are what allow his own orgasm to shudder through his thin body, Eames’ arms wrapping around him and holding him close. They kiss, sloppy and breathless, and laughingly stumble over each other to actually turn the water on.

Then they commence with cleaning Eames up for work, take two.

\- - -

After they have both cleaned up and dressed, they reconvene downstairs in the kitchenette for breakfast. Eames has dragged out a large, uncooked steak from the refrigerator and is delightedly munching on it, with an enormous thermos of coffee at his elbow. Arthur sits in the seat across the table from him with a bottle of sunscreen.

It’s a daily ritual—Eames eats his breakfast, while Arthur slathers every exposed inch of himself in sunscreen. He doesn’t quite burst into flame in sunlight as he had originally feared would be the case, but he does get a bit crispy without the proper precautions.

Eames is smiling at him around a cheekful of meat as Arthur delicately dabs sunscreen around his nose.

“What?” asks Arthur suspiciously.

“Nothing,” says Eames, but Arthur can tell by his expression that he’s feeling sentimental. Perhaps it’s just a sentimental sort of day.

When Eames is done, he pours the assorted steak juices leftover on his plate into a coffee mug and hands it to Arthur as a bloody treat. He also gives Arthur’s cheek—which is slick and unfortunately smells like coconut—a wet kiss.

“I’m off,” he says, grinning so that his sharp canines show. They’re not quite as noticeable as Arthur’s, but they’re there if you know to look for them. “I should be back early today, around two. Are you going to be around then?”

It’s more of a challenge than a question. Much to Eames’ dismay and worry, Arthur is almost always home during the day. Unlike Eames who has a desk job at a publishing house, Arthur works from home and generally avoids going outside in daylight. People tend to give a walking corpse with fangs odd looks, rudely enough.

“Probably,” Arthur says dryly, and gives Eames a kiss back.

He takes a long swig from his mug of blood, and Eames watches him the entire time, eyes traveling from Arthur’s thin lips to the curve of his pale neck as he swallows. The full moon does this to Eames—hormones everywhere, even after shower sex—but Arthur has to admit he doesn’t dislike it. It’s quite the ego boost actually.

“Tonight we should go out, just the two of us,” says Eames brightly, but his conversational tone is belied by the heat in his gaze, the way his muscular body leans ever so slightly towards Arthur as if pulled by a string.

Arthur licks a drop of blood from one of his fangs, tongue curling around the tip, and smiles. “If it ends in fucking, I’m game,” he agrees.

Eames goes to work with a distinctly restless energy and Arthur grins his way through breakfast.

\- - -

About an hour after Eames leaves, Arthur puts on a baseball cap and some glasses—something of a disguise—and mentally prepares himself for an outing to the supermarket. Thursday is grocery day and besides he wants to be able to tell Eames he left the house, because showing Eames up is one of Arthur’s favorite things to do.

Arthur is wearing a striped sweater and dark brown slacks, so he looks full hipster and at least 30% less undead with the hat+glasses combination. His fangs, however, are obviously telling, but if he keeps his head down hopefully no one but the cashier will notice.

The cashier always notices.

He rides a bike to the supermarket because they only have one car and Eames takes it to work, but it isn’t a far ride and Arthur is thankful for the exercise. Once he arrives the first stop is the butcher’s, lots and lots from the butcher’s. He also gets some wine and, for Eames, a large dog bone. He’s browsing through the magazines with his cart at his hip when someone approaches him from behind.

“Arthur?” comes a tentative voice. Something about it sends a chill down Arthur’s spine.

He turns around and opens his mouth to say something inane like “yes?” or “can I help you?” but the response dies on his lips. The man standing in front of him is a stranger, slightly disheveled, with a wide-brimmed hat and a stylish goatee. But the important part is that the man has fangs, perched sharp and dangerous against his bottom lip. This man is a vampire.

Arthur has imagined this moment in his head countless times, but now he has no idea what to possibly say. He just stares, probably comically.

The other vampire smiles, fangs becoming more exposed. “My name is Dominick Cobb,” he says, offering Arthur his hand. Arthur eagerly shakes it.

“Arthur, but you already knew that,” Arthur says stupidly. “Somehow. How did you know?”

“I’ve heard about you,” says Cobb. “Or rather I heard about your wake. Where you came back to life. I thought it might just be gossip but, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve been watching you. I’ve noticed how you come here on Thursdays, and I thought I might introduce myself... There aren’t many vampires around here, as I’m sure you know.”

Oh, Arthur knows. He’s still speechless, clinging to every word this man has to say.

Cobb no doubt notices, and shifts uncomfortably. “Arthur, I’d like to invite you to a little get-together tonight,” he says. “Vampire to vampire.” He hands Arthur a slip of paper with an address written on it. “I know this is a strange way to do it, but I’d like to start building a community.”

“Oh yes, so would I,” says Arthur, head spinning.

“I can’t really talk now, and obviously you’re busy, but if you can come to this address this evening, I would like to speak with you,” Cobb continues. “I know it’s short notice, but I hope you can make it.”

“I would love to,” says Arthur honestly. “Really. I mean. Yeah, yeah I’ll be there. What time?”

“Five thirty perhaps?”

“Five thirty it is.”

Cobb’s smile looks relieved, and there’s a charismatic twinkle in his eye that gives Arthur hope. “I look forward to it,” he says, and Arthur truly believes him.

Then, as if nothing has even happened, Cobb awkwardly takes his leave, and that’s that. Arthur is absolutely starstruck, staring down at the address in his hand.

Because he’s looking at the address, he doesn’t notice that Cobb’s shadow is darker than normal and also three times too large. But then, it’s easy to miss that sort of thing.

\- - -

The day goes painfully slowly after that. The prospect of finally meeting with a creature of his own kind has Arthur jittery, and he cleans the whole apartment before noon. Then he sits to try and get some work done, but sitting at the computer is too sedentary for his restlessness, and he winds up pacing the apartment again, reorganizing, recleaning, doing laundry that arguably doesn’t need to be done.

When Eames finally gets home at 2, it’s to find Arthur awkwardly sweeping the top of the refrigerator.

“You’ve snapped,” Eames declares, and maybe Arthur has a tiny bit.

“Welcome home,” says Arthur dryly.

Eames is grinning and loosens his tie. “We should go clubbing tonight,” he says. “It’s been ages.”

Arthur leans his chin against the broom, now perched back on the floor. “I actually have plans,” he says slowly.

Eames raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“A friend asked me out,” Arthur explains, but that doesn’t change Eames’ expression. Fair enough, seeing as all of Arthur’s friends are also Eames’ friends.

But for some reason, Arthur is suddenly wary of telling Eames the exciting news. A part of him thinks that will make it too real, too permanent. After all, what if his little outing tonight isn’t all he’s dreamed of? What if Cobb winds up hating him? God, when did he suddenly turn into a preteen again?

But there’s something scary about getting his hopes up, and he feels like Eames’ inevitable happiness for him will only stoke the fire. So he hedges with, “I met him at the grocery store. It’s just a dinner or something.”

“You met him at the grocery store,” Eames repeats, but he lets the conversation go. He knows Arthur is keeping things from him, and this expression like a dejected puppy flickers in his eyes.

Arthur steps over and gives him a kiss as a thanks and an apology. I’ll tell you when things pan out, he thinks. Or when they don’t.

“You’ll be here tomorrow night though, right?” Eames asks, eyes big and gray. Tomorrow night is the full moon.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Arthur says honestly.

Eames’ grin creeps back, and he gently nips at Arthur’s lip. “I can think of something to bide the time until you have to leave,” he says, and Arthur doesn’t mind that in the slightest.

His lips curl back from his fangs in a large, dimpled smile. “I smell like Pinesol but if that’s sexy, ok.”

Apparently, Eames finds it sexy.

\- - -

At five o’clock the sun has just started to set, and a gray autumn evening is creeping its way over the town. Arthur has added a scarf and trenchcoat to his sweater+hat+glasses, and has just arrived at the address Cobb’s slip of paper described.

He rereads the address. Looks up. Reads it again.

He’s at the right place, but the right place is a graveyard.

The evening gloom hangs among the gravestones and statues like a fog, clinging to lichen-speckled granite and crumbling marble. The centerpiece of the graveyard is a small mausoleum, white and shaped like a house or perhaps a church.

Suddenly Cobb emerges from behind the mausoleum and waves at him, smiling. He’s not wearing his wide-brimmed hat anymore, probably because the sun has gone down, and his dirty blond hair is slicked back stylishly. “Arthur,” he calls, beckoning the other vampire forward, and Arthur awkwardly complies, leaving his bike leaning against the gateway.

It’s strange stepping through a graveyard where he might have been buried once upon a time. He tries not to think about it as he comes to the white stone wall of the little house.

“I’m so glad you came,” says Cobb. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” He rests a hand on the stone wall, giving it an odd little pet.

“Do you come here often?” Arthur asks slowly.

“Oh yes. It’s important to keep in touch with one’s roots, no?”

Arthur supposes that makes sense.

Cobb opens one of the grand black doors and gestures for Arthur to step into the mausoleum, and Arthur has to quell a feeling of inherent delinquency to comply.

It’s like entering a small home and Arthur feels a strange urge to take off his shoes. Obviously the tomb is well attended, free of leaves or graffiti or the remnants of squatters. Two beautiful coffins are set into the walls on either side of Arthur in parallel niches, and carved everywhere in the marble are buildings, tiny cities spanning the walls instead of angels. It’s breathtaking.

Set in the center of the room is a small dais shaped like a square dollhouse, and apparently Cobb has decided to use this as a table. Perched on top of it is a bottle of wine and a stack of Solo cups, oddly pedestrian for the grand surroundings.

“I used to be an architect,” Cobb says by way of explanation.

“You made this?” Arthur’s eyebrows threaten to disappear in his hair. “Wow. Do you have relatives here?”

“Oh no,” says Cobb. “It’s mine.” He motions to one of the coffins. “I was in that one.”

Just then, a deep grinding sound echoes throughout the room and sets the hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck on end. He whips around just in time to see the lid of the second coffin slowly moving back, revealing its dark recesses. Arthur freezes, petrified as a snow white hand emerges to clutch the coffin’s rim. A woman gingerly sits up, white with a black dress flowing over her features. Her eyes and hair are a deep, earthy brown, and her lips are pale to the point of vague blueness. She touches the tip of her tongue to one of her fangs, smiling, and nimbly levers herself out of the coffin to stand before Arthur on the stone floor.

“Arthur, I’d like you to meet my wife,” says Cobb. “This is Mal.”

“How do you do?” the woman says graciously in a thick French accent, offering her hand. Still rather shell-shocked, Arthur accepts the hand, cool like his own.

“Oh,” Mal says, half sigh half moan. “There’s nothing like sleeking on your own burial ground, don’t you agree, Arthur?”

“Uh,” says Arthur. “I’m sorry. I was never buried. I woke up before my funeral.”

“Shame that,” says Mal. “It’s really quite a treat.”

Cobb is smiling brightly and pops open the bottle of wine, pouring a generous helping into one of the Solo cups. And it isn’t wine, Arthur realizes. When Cobb hands him the first cup, Arthur stares down at it, hunger gurgling in his stomach.

“What sort of blood is this?” he asks.

“Sheep,” says Cobb easily. “I’m friends with the butcher at that grocery store of yours. It’s easier than draining rare meat, you know?” He pours another cup and hands it to Mal, their fingers lingering as they exchange the sort of small smile reserved for long time lovers.

Arthur drinks and damn, this is the best blood he’s ever had.

Moments later, the three of them are sitting on the mausoleum floor like boyscouts in a tent, laughing and sharing stories. It’s funny in a way, seeing these elegant people sprawled about in the tight space. Mal’s legs rest in Cobb’s lap, and he absentmindedly rubs her ankle with his thumb. Arthur sits with his back to Cobb’s coffin, grinning as he listens to the couple’s playful banter and drinks copious amounts of his hosts’ good blood.

“You are always welcome here at our burial site, Arthur,” says Mal. “Everyone should have a burial site. The groundskeeper doesn’t mind. We bribe him.”

She says it so frankly, he’s instantly charmed.

“I never knew there were other vampires living here,” he says.

“We’re everywhere,” says Cobb. “The same as werewolves or ghosts or all monstrous things.” He leans forward, placing his cup on the floor in front of him, and squints at Arthur consideringly. His cheeks are flushed with the blood he’s imbibed. “The moment I saw you, Arthur, I knew you needed our help. A person can’t live in isolation from themselves. You can’t fight the darkness alone.”

Arthur isn’t sure what he means by darkness, but he eagerly agrees and so does Mal.

“Yes, the darkness will eat you up otherwise,” says Mal.

“I do have friends,” says Arthur, assuming this conversation is about his loneliness. “They’re werewolves mostly. A great pack.”

“But it’s not the same,” says Mal, and by the clutch of Arthur’s heart she’s right.

“Werewolves don’t have the right weapons. You can’t fight the darkness without the right weapons,” says Cobb, and Mal nods at him encouragingly. This darkness metaphor is starting to go over Arthur’s head, so he just nods as well and drinks more blood.

By the time he leaves the Cobbs’ “residence,” he’s slightly drunk on blood and feeling on top of the world. He was invited to the Cobbs’ actual home for a proper dinner over the weekend, and there’s a bounce in his step at the very prospect.

However, as he walks his bike home, he doesn’t notice that his shadow in the streetlamps is slightly too long, slightly too dark, nor that each and every streetlamp abruptly flickers out as soon as he’s passed it. This is certainly abnormal, but he’s too busy feeling normal for the first time in years to realize it.

**Author's Note:**

> All I wanted to do was write a story where Eames had a beard, and then somehow this happened orz
> 
> This story has a special place in my heart, because it is my go to writer's block story. My attitude with it has been "don't worry, just write!" which has been really fun and enlightening.
> 
> At the same time, though, I have no idea whether it works or not, haha. Let me know? x)
> 
> I have this outlined to be about four or five chapters long. A quickie, but hopefully a fun one.


End file.
